A Quiet Crush
by White Phantom
Summary: Michel de Chevin finds that he fancies the inquisitor.


A/N: A quick drabble for Michel de Chevin x a female inquisitor.

...-...

She had to be Maker-sent.

That had been Michel de Chevin's first thought when he'd met the Inquisitor. Granted, at the time he'd really just been happy for the help in fending off those damned wolves. He'd taken one down, which had only seemed to add fuel to the others' rage—poor beasts were either starving or driven mad by that red lyrium growing all over the place.

Or perhaps they'd been sent by the damned _demon_. They certainly moved like they were possessed.

It had seemed that his quest to make right his wrongs would end rather pitifully in front of that decimated village, when an arrow had pierced one of the beasts in the eye. Then, even as he'd dispatched another, figures had been moving past him as more arrows found their mark, and the creatures were defeated.

Truly, it had felt like a Maker-sent second chance.

As Michel gave thanks to a massive Qunari warrior, the giant merely nodded his chin toward someone standing behind him. "Thanks goes to the boss. If not for her incredible hearing, we'd still be asking that little old lady about her jewelry box."

A sweet voice answered, not a few paces behind him. "My hearings not _that_ great, Bull."

Even as the Qunari continued to tease her that maybe some mark had improved her senses—a conversation they'd apparently had before, from the irritation in her replies—Michel turned to offer the appropriate thanks for his rescue.

He turned, and the world seemed to stop. This had never happened to him before, getting caught off guard with the mere sight of someone, but she was…something else. Disheveled and clearly cold and beautiful.

And when his eyes met hers, he was completely and utterly tongue-tied.

It was for but a moment, but it was enough that he felt the need to stand a bit straighter, a bit more confident if only to make up for it. Had he been in Val Royeaux, tongues would have been wagging at so telling a pause, but here, out in the miserable cold, it seemed that his hesitation was dismissed as exhaustion, and for that he was most grateful.

Their encounter had threatened to be over far too quickly, with her wishing him well and suggesting he have a gash on his arm looked at back at the Inquisition camp on the other side of the village. He'd called for her to wait, only to again feel the fool when he realized there was no good reason to delay her efforts against the red templars, as one of her companions had mentioned to be their cause. However, injured as he was, he took the blunder and turned around, but telling her of his own mission and what had brought him to so desolate a place. With him in no condition to press on, she'd readily taken up his quest to slay Imshael the second he'd asked it.

While she'd been gone, reason had crept back in. Of course he was going to be grateful to a lovely woman who had saved him, and he had likely just been surprised that she'd managed to look so elegant out in this awful weather. He doubted the better players of the Game could keep their composure in such conditions, so it wasn't odd that he'd been so taken aback.

And then she'd returned victorious, and there had been no denying that he was actually quite smitten with her. From a glance, too. It was almost shameful how quickly he'd fallen.

He'd pledged himself to her cause most readily, half telling himself as he told her that without Imshael, he had no purpose with which to serve, and the Inquisition seemed like a noble cause.

It was true enough.

…Just as true as the fact that he hoped that working for the Inquisition meant he might see her again, even if she was the Inquisitor and likely hadn't the time for a former, disgraced chevalier.

And she very rarely did. He came to know her mostly through the stories the other members of the Inquisition so readily shared, of her saving slaves in the Hissing Wastes, of her wit at solving ancient puzzles, of her miraculous survival at Haven's defeat.

Honestly, the first time he'd found her alone on the ramparts, he'd wondered if he shouldn't just keep walking, as a woman so busy with such heroics likely had little time to herself. However, she'd seen him and called him over with a wave of her hand, and he'd been unable to refuse.

They'd talked about idle things for a time before she'd finally said, "Michel de Chevin, former knight to Empress Celene herself…" She'd trailed off before frowning. "Not knight, chevalier. I'm sorry. You'd think I'd be better with Orlesian titles by now, but no."

"They are not so different," he'd offered, surprised that she had apparently taken the time to look into him. It made sense that _someone_ would to make sure his allegiance wouldn't cause problems for the Inquisition, he supposed, but for it to have been _her_ …

"I was curious about some of the stories they tell of you," she admitted, with a small shrug, letting her gaze wander, though when he glanced back at her after doing the same, she was watching him from the corner of her eye. "Unfortunately, they're not as easy to come by as mine."

For a breath, he wondered if she was criticizing his own seeking out of her heroics, but she quickly dispelled that worry with a half-hearted shrug. "I go to find out anything about anyone, and I have to wade through eleven tales about the wonders I've done just to hear one half-hearted story about someone else."

"Well, you must admit, the stories are impressive," Michel offered.

At that, she laughed. "I'd say. I wish I'd been there for half of them. Especially the one where I single-handedly slew the dragon of the Western Approach. It must have been incredible."

"Is this your way of saying you question the validity of the stories you hear about everyone?" he asked, leaning against the ramparts beside her.

"I must sound so fickle."

"Not at all, my lady," he'd stated reassuringly, "but if you would like to know anything of me, you need only ask. I have sworn myself to you, and I will not deny you the truth of who I am."

He had meant to say, 'to your cause', but if she noticed his folly, she said nothing.

The more time passed, the more frequently they found the time to speak. It might be another quiet talk on the battlements, or a passing conversation in a hall—once they'd even stopped on the road when their journeys allowed a chance meeting.

Each time he saw her, she was more beautiful than the last, and each time they parted ways it felt more painful. He worried over her wellbeing. While she was quite skilled in combat, he couldn't help but think of how easily battles could go wrong. A single misstep, a friend drawing attention at a critical moment…there was so much that could happen, and he hoped dearly that nothing of the sort befell her.

He'd been away on a mission of his own—he assisted where he could with intelligence regarding Orlesian politics, as well as helping lead missions against demons and the red templars. This particular assignment had been rather twisted, starting off as a simple trip to reach out to one of Celene's former allies who had fallen on hard luck. Sister Nightingale had thought another of Celene's cast offs might be able to sway them to support the Inquisition, though why she would want someone whose power had been so diminished was beyond him.

He hadn't found it odd enough to question.

However, the noble's home had been taken over by rogue mages, who had summoned creatures he'd rather forget, and it had been a bloody mess. Fortunately, few of the soldiers with him had fallen, though the lives that had been lost left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Down two brave souls and no new ally to show for it. The spymaster would not likely be pleased.

As he finished handing his steed off to one of the stable hands and bid his small unit goodnight—they deserved drinks at the tavern, too, and he'd already decided to get there ahead of them to start a tab on their behalf—his week finally took a turn for the better.

He'd made it halfway through the stables' courtyard when an all too familiar voice called out his name, stopping him in his tracks. Turning, he mustered up the energy for a proper bow and greeting. "Lady Inquisitor, to what do I owe this pleasure?"

She was dressed in casual attire, likely having been back in Skyhold for a few days at least, as there was no wear from travel evident on her features. "I saw you come in, and thought I'd say hello."

He couldn't help or hide the smile at that. She'd thought of him. Or rather… "I'm sorry to say the mission was unsuccessful."

She pursed her lips, turning to walk toward the main courtyard with him, matching his pace so that neither of them led. Maker, but she was lovely tonight. "I suppose I will hear more about it in your report."

"You will have it first thing in the morning," he said quickly, a little disappointed that this had seemed to be why she'd looked for him. While they had developed an odd sort of friendship, he would be fooling himself if he thought that she was interested in him, as well. And he did his best to keep his fancies to himself, lest he ruin what _was_ between them. After all that he had done, all the turmoil and disgrace, it would be foolish to think so great a woman to be in his future.

That, of course, did not stop him from appreciating the way the torchlight played on her hair, drawing highlights out to glimmer and fade as they walked, or the casual sway of her hips.

He tried to focus on what she was saying, rather than letting his mind wander. Their conversation wound through little things, simple mishaps and a few more lighthearted incidents from travels—he needed something lighthearted after the trip he'd had—when they finally reached the steps leading into the main castle.

Stopping, he hesitated, glancing over his shoulder to see that some of his soldiers were almost to the tavern. Lips dipping into a frown, he gave the Inquisitor another bow. "I'm afraid I need to do something."

Her head tilted, though rather than bid him goodnight, she simply twisted around on her feet, and headed with him to the tavern.

He was surprised by how easily conversation resumed between them, and how she simply hung back when he went over to make the tab. He'd rather expected that heads would turn the second she stepped in the room—his always did—and yet the bustle of the evening continued uninterrupted, save for a few greetings and waves.

It seemed everyone was content to give the Inquisitor time to herself tonight.

Once he was sure everything had been squared away, he sauntered back over to her, with a drink in each hand. The smile she gave him as she settled into the nearest empty table sent a shiver through him. They'd talked alone plenty of times, yet this felt so much…more.

He needed sleep if he was honestly thinking of this as some sort of courtship.

One drink became two, and the night stretched into more tales of lighthearted affairs and simple silliness. Others joined them for a story or two, yet whenever he glanced at the Inquisitor, her eyes were on him. It made him bold, and for the first time in a long time, he recalled older tales, from when he had worked for the empress. He'd always avoided talking about his past when it could, worried that it would open old wounds that were still mending.

Yet tonight held no resurgence of pain. It surprised him how little they stung to recall, instead simply being memories from another time.

Another life.

He kept them light, kept the worse aspects of the Game at a distance, not wanting to crush the cheery mood.

It was well into the night when the Inquisitor finally decided to head to bed. There were too many meetings in the morrow to stay up to greet the sun.

"Walk with me?" she asked as she slid out of her seat, and he readily hopped out of his. Neither of them had drunk so much that they couldn't walk, though he couldn't deny he was tipsy.

As they headed into the castle, laughter accompanying their steps, she leaned against him, looping an arm around his, and he could have forgotten all of his formal training in a breath. Somehow, he managed to maintain at least some modicum of respectability as he led her past the dying fires in the fireplace and braziers, through the empty hall where the nobles usually gathered. It was too late for them to idle about now.

He stopped when they reached the door leading up to her private chambers, giving her another bow. "Good night, Inquisitor."

She turned to go, but stopped in the last second, pivoting back toward him and offering him a simple peck on the cheek. "Good night, Michel."

He openly wore his broad smile all the way back to his chambers. Perhaps he wasn't such a fool after all.


End file.
